From Ashes to Immortality
by LostThyme
Summary: In a world where monsters roam unnoticed in the world of people, Dean Winchester ends up in the Hunger Games to spare the life of his little brother. Once in the arena, he finds himself pitted against opponents who have no qualms about killing him, and only an uneasy alliance with some of the others is going to get him through the coming days.
1. Beginnings

"You've got to throw the final test, Dean." Dean Winchester's father hammered the mantra in his head from a young age. "You're not going to be a Career. When they try to teach you how to kill, I want you to play dumb. Do you understand me?" He was just a tall, overpowering presence in those memories. An idea, repeating over and over. "Play dumb."

The Winchesters were from District Two, home of stone masonry and, lesser known, weapons making. It was a Career district, which meant that at the age of ten they were taught to hold a gun, throw a spear, and overpower an opponent in hand-to-hand combat. The best were singled out and given special training. Those kids were the Careers. Glory and flames burning out and bloodshed. "You're not going to be a Career. Throw the test."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied every time, too young to say anything else. When his birthday rolled around and he was taken away for a week for training and evaluation, he did just what his father said.

At the end of the week Dean and the dozen or so other kids who had turned ten in the first quarter of the year were lined up outside the large room of a refitted warehouse. They were called in one by one until only Dean and one other boy were left. When Dean was called in, his hands were clammy and shaking. As he walked into the room he hid the tremors by clutching the frayed hem of his shirt. Some older people watched him impassively as they pushed him through the physical routine that he had learned.

"Play dumb," his father had said. Dean pulled in his abilities and personality until he resembled a younger girl at school he always poked fun at for being a baby. Jo Harvelle was the endless subject to his torment. He secretly admired her because she wouldn't back down, but would never admit it.

When he was asked to do push ups he did three before shaking dramatically and collapsing on the floor. One of the observers tutted as he rolled over onto his back. At the end they stamped bold words on Dean's file that said "NOT ELIGIBLE."

His father was waiting for Dean when they let him leave. John didn't even ask what happened. "Good job, son," he said. They went back home and never spoke of it again.

A few weeks after the test Sam found the gun their dad had stolen from one of the factories. He was only six. Sam knew what the gun meant, even then. In his mind it meant pain, death in the streets, no Mom. Dean knew possession was punishable by a swift and silent execution. Rather than telling Sam off like he had when Dean had asked about it, John placed the rifle in Sam's arms. It was stupid-looking and sad, that horrible thing in his tiny arms. Dean hated the sight.

"The Peacekeepers killed your mom, Sammy," John said. "They came into our house and they killed her just because she disagreed with the Games and protested. I keep this so that won't happen to you or your brother." He then took the rifle away and put it in Dean's hands. "It's your job to make sure nothing happens to Sam, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Dean said as always, but John hadn't had to tell him. Dean knew his brother was his responsibility from the long days and nights they were left alone. He was the one who made the food for Sam every night, who made sure he did his homework, who made sure he got in bed in time, who made sure no one would break into their house at night. It was his job not to question where John went for those days on end.

Later that night they went to practice shooting in a secluded area. Sam cried when John told him to fire. Dean hit the bullseye every time.

#

It was hard being from District Eleven. It was even harder on Jimmy Novak because he was from a large family. Even at a young age it was all hard work and not enough food to go around. As long as he had known it was just him, his father, and all of his siblings. They were always a hair's breadth away from starvation but they always made do.

They never talked much about his mother. His older sister took care of him in her absence. Jimmy carried his weight of the work load in the fields and when he got home Anna would tend to the ruptured blisters on his small soft hands and cheer him up. He got along well enough with his brothers but only because he tolerated them with what Anna called the patience of a saint.

One day when Jimmy was young one of his older brothers never came back from the fields. No one mentioned it during a tense and quiet dinner but afterward Jimmy asked Anna. "Where's Gabe?"

Her face fell and she wouldn't meet his eyes. "He's gone away to find work."

"But Anna, we have plenty of work to do here. Don't lie to me."

Anna took him by the shoulders and looked into his eyes now, dark hazel looking into wide blue. "Gabriel is gone now. You can't worry about him. He's forcing us to do more work and as far as I'm concerned good riddance." Jimmy was confused but nodded. Anna took him by the arm and led him to the room they shared with two of the others. They were alone. He changed his clothes in silence and handed them to her one by one. She folded the worn scraps of fabric neatly and put them over the back of a chair. "I'm going to have to get you some new trousers soon. Your ankles are starting to show."

Jimmy slipped under the thin blanket on his straw mattress and curled up, facing her. "Will you say prayers with me?" He whispered. Prayers weren't Capitol approved. Prayers were the kinds of things that got people in the kind of trouble that made them disappear. He knew he shouldn't ask her but she never denied him.

"Alright. We have to be quick about it." Anna got down on her knees beside the bed and folded Jimmy's hands in a steeple inside of hers.

She was like an angel to him then. The light from the door behind her made her hair into a fiery halo that framed her peaceful face. She noticed him watching and stuck out her tongue, ruining the moment somewhat. "Close your eyes and get us started then."

Jimmy obliged, only peeking a bit through his lashes. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread..." He trailed off, cracking his eyes open a bit more.

"... And forgive us our trespasses..." Anna prompted.

"... As we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen." He hesitated, but started a prayer of his own. "Heavenly Father, bless Gabe and keep him in Your love. Grant him a good rest tonight, and send Your angels to protect him. Wherever he is. Amen." Anna looked sad in the dim light.

Jimmy jammed his eyes shut as Anna put her fingers up to his forehead. She made the sign of a cross on him. "May the Lord bless you and give you peace," she said softly. She hugged him and planted a kiss where she had just made the symbol. "Get some sleep, you little gnat."

When she was gone, Jimmy felt a painful, confused hole in the absence of his brother. He knew he was gone for good, Anna had said so. Good riddance, she had said. Jimmy didn't think it was good riddance.

A month later Gabriel crept into the house at night. Jimmy heard him talking to Anna in the hall outside their bedroom. He was trying to convince her to leave, their voices as heated as a whisper would allow. Jimmy crept to the door and pushed it open a bit to see.

"You wouldn't believe it, Anna! I don't have to do any work at all," Gabriel exclaimed quietly. He looked worse for the wear, like he had been sleeping outside, but he looked more well-fed than anyone Jimmy had ever seen.

Anna put her hands on her hips. "Yeah, you're doing what? Hiding out in the woods, running from the Peacekeepers and stealing our food? That really sounds like the life, Gabe."

"No, no, it's not like that at all. Come on, I didn't have to come back all this way for you."

"What about Jimmy? I have to look out for him." Jimmy's heart was falling at the sound of the doubtful tone in her voice.

"Why are you so caught up about the kid? He doesn't even have the same mom as us."

It was an instantaneous blow to the most sensitive part of his young heart. Jimmy heard a small cry pass through his lips before he sealed away the pain. He didn't want to wake up the others.

"I'll go get my stuff," Anna said after a long pause. "Don't leave without me." Jimmy hurried back to his bed and pulled the covers up over his head to hide the silent tears.

Anna slipped into the dark room and made shuffling noises as she packed her few possessions into a bag. Jimmy could feel her hair tickle his face as she leaned over and kissed his temple. "I'm sorry, Jimmy. I'm going to leave. I just can't take it here anymore. I'll come back for you when the time is right."

Jimmy had never noticed that she had been unhappy, and for the first time he realized that maybe she was just as good at hiding things as he was. He pretended to be asleep as she stood up. He wasn't going to say goodbye.  
"Goodbye," Anna said and closed the door behind her. The door closed with the soft promise of "I'll come back", but Jimmy rolled over and covered his ears. District Eleven was no place for promises.

#

When Sam was almost ten John gave him the talk about Careers and throwing the exam. Dean was in the next room but he got the gist of things when Sam stormed out and slammed the broken screen door behind the house. He watched Sam crawl into the shed out back.

"Dean, fix that door," John said. He was calm but something in his tone was threatening and made Dean jump to his feet. It took until almost dark for Dean to reattach the broken mesh and fix the door back on its hinges but as soon as he was done he dropped the hammer on the ground and went after Sam.

Despite the fact that Two was a wealthier district, many parts of the region had fallen into disrepair and poverty. There was an invisible line around the center of the District that marked the well-off from the struggling masses. Dean's family was far out of that line. Their house was ancient, pieced together from the old rotting frame and whatever John had used to cover the holes. The shed was in worse shape.

"Sam!" Dean ducked through the hole in the side, blocking the scattered last sunlight that was trickling in.

Sam looked up at him. He was still small, a kid, but he was furious. His brows were pulled together until they were almost touching. He scooted over in the dirt automatically to make room for Dean. "Why does Dad want me to throw the exam? Why not get the training? I want to be ready if I get into the Games." The words came pouring out quickly. He had probably been stewing over them for the past couple of hours.

"He doesn't want you to be a Career." Dean sat down on an overturned, rusty wheelbarrow.

Sam drew his knees tighter to his chest. "He raised us like Careers, Dean! What else can we do now?" Confusion, despair, and anger were all there on his round face. That rush of emotions always had been there, just under the surface. "We would be great at it."

"He's not raising us to be Careers. He's just making sure we can take care of ourselves. You know what's out there."

"I don't see a difference between a Career and a Hunter, Dean." Sam rested his chin on his knees. "One kills people and the other kills stuff that looks like people."

Dean didn't really have anything to say to that so they sat there together and watched as the world around them was lit orange, then blue, then black. Dean eventually distracted him with a story about an older kid from school and they laughed together until their father called them in.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and we'll never have to be in the Games," Dean said as they walked back to the house in the hazy light from the back door. "What are the odds, one in a thousand?"

Sam laughed uncomfortably. "We're not lucky. We're Winchesters."


	2. Family

The duffel bag was next to the door, fully packed. Sam could tell just by looking at it that there was enough in there for at least a week-long trip. His father had left often enough that he knew. "Are you leaving?" He crept into his father's small room and asked anyway. The doorknob was long gone, so Sam had to hook his fingers through the rough hole to pull the door open. The bright, floral wallpaper had dimmed and peeled in the long years since his mother had put it up. Sam ran his fingers over it in silent memorial.

John took no note of the movement. "I'll be back long before the Reaping, don't you worry." He slung his arm into his only coat, a dark one that blended in with the wilds surrounding the District. It had been patched and mended with unpracticed hands so many times that it resembled an odd sort of camouflage.

"Hunting?" Sam crossed his arms and watched his father struggle to hook the buttons together for a moment. John's motor skills had taken a nosedive since he had disappeared a few hours before. "Have you been drinking again?" It wasn't an accusation, just a weary observance. Only in his oldest memories did he remember a John like this, and they were not fond memories. He was just fourteen. No child should have to endure the disappointment of watching a parent stumble through the house after indulging something that he had sworn to give up, he told himself. It made him sad, but even more it made him mad.

John cursed and gave up on the front of his coat. "Sammy, could you give an old man a hand?" Sam frowned and shook his head. He could smell the alcohol on his breath from across the room. "Fine." John turned away and slipped a pistol into the inner lining, against his heart. "Fine," he mumbled again, more to himself. "I'll be traveling slower than usual on my way back, but I'll send word ahead when I get back into the District. I want you and your brother here waiting on me when I get home, you understand? Tell Dean when he gets back from wherever the hell he went."

"Fine," Sam echoed. He pressed himself up against the door frame as John pushed by. Following with silent footsteps, Sam watched as John slung the duffel over his broad shoulders and opened the door. Cool night air rushed in, chilling Sam. It was a foreboding feeling, one that sank deep into him. It was then that he noticed that his father's eyes were swollen. "Be careful," Sam said quietly.

John cracked a smile that he forced to reach his eyes. "Thanks, Sammy."

As soon as John had disappeared at the end of the dirt road, Sam took off running, leaving the door to the house open and spilling light on his pounding heels.

#

He met Dean on the road as it wound through a patch of trees. His dark figure in the night leapt out at him as he passed. They both froze, Dean swearing and Sam skidding to a stop in a ditch a few yards away.

"Sammy?"

"Dean!" Sam was out of breath.

Dean squinted in attempt to make him out. "What's wrong?"

Sam shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly ashamed that he had run all of the way out there. "Dad just left. He was drunk."

Dean swore again and rubbed a hand across his face. "Come on, let's get you home." He started walking off, leaving Sam to fall in line beside him. He swore again. "He just left you in the middle of the night? Jeez, Sammy, what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Sam defended himself. He lowered his voice after the sound echoed in the still air. "I didn't. I think he got some kind of note earlier. He took it with him."

"Do you know where he went?"

"No, only that he's going to be gone for at least a week."

Dean sighed and glanced around warily.

Sam looked suspiciously at him. "What were you doing out here, anyway?"

The subject change obviously made Dean uncomfortable. "I'll tell you when we get home. It's not safe out here this time of night."

The thing with Dean was, if you let the subject drop he would just get even more annoyed if you brought it up again later. "You were out here," Sam pressed. "Was it a girl?"

"What? No." Dean grinned. "Hell, I wish it was." The smile slid off of his face. "If you have to know, I was hunting something. Ever heard of a rougarou?"

Sam crossed his arms. "Like... the werewolf story? Dad said those don't exist around here."

"That's what I thought at first, but it fits all the patterns. I followed a trail back to one of the old mines but it got too dark for me to see. I'm going to go back later with a lantern."

"Always failing to plan ahead," Sam said, letting a laugh slip.

"Shut up." That only fueled Sam's laughter. "No really, shut up." Dean grabbed Sam's arm to halt him in the middle of the dirt road. "Did you hear that?"

Nothing stirred around them. "No. Nothing's around for miles." Sam made a face at Dean. "I swear if you're trying to scare me I'll..."

Dean wasn't listening. He reached inside his jacket where he was hiding a pistol, just like their father did. "Run for the house, Sammy."

"You're being an idiot," Sam said, but when Dean let him go, he could hear it. It was a quiet rustling noise that seemed to be coming from every bush around them. One last menacing hiss was the last thing he needed to persuade him to run. As he took off he could feel a rough hand pushing him in the direction of the distant light.

The only sounds that accompanied him to the house were ragged breaths, his feet hitting the ground, and the sound of Dean close behind him. His brother slipped in the door just after him and Sam closed it, pressing himself against the thin wood. "You didn't shoot it?" he cried.

Dean pulled a plank over the door and fitted it into two hooks that had been there as long as they could remember. "I didn't want to draw any attention from the Peacekeepers." While all of the Winchesters hardly left the house without some kind of weapon, they never used them within the city. Dean went to the back and secured the other door as Sam did the same with the windows, checking all of the locks. "Don't bother putting salt down. It won't stop something this nasty."

"And I'd just have to clean it all back up." Salt was a precious commodity out here in the middle of the District. A pound of it could be traded for enough food to last a family for half a month. John had saved up for nearly a year to get his supply to stave off monsters.

When Sam rejoined him in the front hall Dean was peering out of the windows. Everything was silent. "I don't think it followed us home," Sam said at last.

"Are you sure?" Sam joined him and pulled the curtains aside a fraction. The road outside was abandoned. The only thing that indicated that they weren't utterly alone was the lights from the houses scattered around nearby.

"Dammit, no." Dean let his side of the moth-eaten curtains drop. "You go on and do your homework. I'll keep watch tonight just in case."

"I've already done my homework," Sam said petulantly.

Dean stalked past him toward the kitchen. "Then you can keep watch while I eat. I'm starving."

Sam sat quietly on the steps in the front hall, the pistol on his lap. He could hear his brother crashing around in the other room. Their father had never trusted them enough to take on solo hunting jobs, so obviously Dean was hunting this rougarou on the sly. Sam wondered how long this had been going on. Dean never spent more time at home than he had to these days so it was hard to tell.

Dean joined him with a two bowls. He set one on Sam's lap. He could feel through the bowl that the soup was barely warm but he nodded in thanks anyway. "I screwed up, Sam," Dean said as he took a seat on the stairs beside him. "I never meant to get you in trouble like that."

"Forget about it." Sam choked the soup down.

"What if you had..."

"I said forget about it." They sat in comfortable silence until they were both done eating. Sam took both bowls. "Your turn to keep watch. I'm going to hit the hay."

Dean handed the bowl over. "Hey, Sammy?" Sam stopped in the doorway and half turned toward him. "Thanks for not being too pissed at me about all this. Dad would kill me."

"I won't tell him."

"Night."

#

Their father came stumbling back into the house a few hours later. They were woken by the sound of his heavy boots on the floor. He was collapsed on the couch when they found him, unresponsive and snoring softly. Dean carefully removed John's boots and pulled a rough blanket over him. They ducked out of the room. "You said he left," Dean hissed under his breath.

"He did," Sam said defensively. They watched him, framed in mirror image in the doorframe. "Dean, it's been years since he got drunk like this. What do you think..."

"Doesn't matter. You said he got a note, but it's none of our business. If you want to argue with him in the morning about it, be my guest." Dean clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Go on. He's back now, that's all that matters." As soon as Sam was gone, Dean circled back to his father. He was out cold, not so much as moving as Dean reached into his coat to pull out the gun and a rumpled, dirty scrap of paper.

Dean felt wrong for taking the note, but he could put it back before morning. John would never know. He unfolded it carefully, spreading it against his thigh as soon as he was out of the room. The note was scrawled in an uneven, young hand and portions had been scratched out as if the writer had to start over repeatedly.

It took Dean all of a minute to read the note, but even as he went upstairs with it crushed in his fist its meaning had yet to sink in.

#

Dean was still tossing and turning when he heard something circling the house. He leapt out of bed in his t-shirt and boxers, leaving his uncomfortable thoughts behind. He rapped on Sam's door as he ran past. "We have company!" he shouted. Sam stumbled out half-asleep. The rougarou had found them. "Leave it to dad to get wasted before something happens," Dean complained. He still had his father's pistol and was facing the entryway, his feet squared off.

"Leave it to you to bring something home right after dad gets wasted, you mean." Sam joined him momentarily to grab a wrench from a toolbox. He flinched when the monster began pounding on the door. "I'm going to try to wake him up." He ran over to his father and shook his shoulder. "Dad!" No response. "Can you believe it? He's still asleep."

"Wake him up, dammit. I don't know how much longer this door will hold."

"He won't wake up!" Sam was frantically shaking John, but his head only flopped back and forth on the pillow lifelessly. Sam let him go roughly and ran to join Dean. "So, rougarou. What kills them?"

"Hell if I know," Dean said. "I never made it that far in my plan."

"Comforting."

Together they watched the door buckle and splinter as the monster continued its attempts to get in. Dean made a frustrated noise after a few minutes. "Screw this, I'm letting it in." He moved for the door.

"Are you crazy?" Sam said incredulously.

"I'm tired of waiting. If you have a problem, go hide upstairs." Dean lifted the bar from the door and held it closed with his weight. "Last chance." No one moved. "Okay. Here goes nothing." Dean let go.

With one last push the monster burst into the room, sending Dean skidding back into Sam. The boys both fought for purchase on the smooth wood, but they ended up in a tangled heap next to the stairs. "Oof. Get off me," Sam said frantically.

"I'm tryin'," Dean said, pushing Sam's face down roughly to get up. He swung the butt of the pistol at the advancing creature. It had been human once, that much they could tell in the low light. It was tall, far taller than either of them, dressed in bloody rags that used to be clothes that barely hid its skeletal form and torn, hanging skin. Dean cursed and dodged out of its way while trying to draw its attention away from Sam. "Over here, you ugly bastard." He threw a nearby tool at it but it just bounced off and clattered to the floor.

Sam managed to duck behind a doorway. "I think you're just making it even madder, Dean."

Dean was hiding around a corner. He checked the chamber of the pistol. Three bullets. "Move out of the way!" Without thinking, Sam ducked. Dean brought the gun up, aimed it, let out a deep breath, then pulled the trigger.

The bullet found its mark, sinking deep into the monster's forehead. The monster fell to the floor.

Sam's rebuff came moments later. "Why the hell did you shoot it? Now every Peacekeeper in the area's going to be here!"

Dean raised his hands. "No one was coming up with any better ideas!"

"Crap." Sam took the gun from Dean and searched around for places to hide it. "We've got to get rid of this."

The sound of Peacekeeper sirens was already approaching from the distance. "We've got to run," Dean said, running a hand through his hair. "This is all spiraling out of control, if you hadn't noticed. But if I hadn't shot the damn thing..."

As if on cue, the corpse on the floor stirred and began to pull itself to its feet. "What the-"

"It... it didn't die?" Dean unloaded the rest of the round into it, pop pop, but nothing was slowing it down. "Shi-"

John appeared in the doorway. He looked unsteady on his feet but there was a strange clarity in his eyes. He shoved past Sam to snatch the gun out of Dean's hands.

"Dad, we-" Dean said.

"I don't want an explanation. Sam, go get the matches from the kitchen, Dean get some burning oil." The creature was still trying to regain its balance but they were running out of time. The sirens calling in the distance only decreased the time they had left. "Go!"

They made short work of the rougarou with the oil and matches. Dean doused it while John provided distraction, and Sam tossed a lit match onto it. The screams it made echoed in the night, making Sam want to clap his hands over his ears and look away. John and Dean didn't look away, the only waited for the fire to go out as the creature turned to ashes on the floor.

John rounded on his sons. "You need to hide. Now. There's no time to run. Get under the front porch, you know where to go."

Dean and Sam both wanted to protest, but they tore themselves away to slip through a slat in the side of the porch outside. Just as they stilled, there were heavy footsteps on the wood above them.

It has a sick feeling to it all. They had last been down there when they were young children, playing hide and seek with their neighbors. As Dean crouched, he carefully moved a mildewed toy that had been abandoned there long before either of them could remember.

There was the sound of a struggle accompanied by muffled voices. Before Dean could react, Sam was sliding out of their hiding spot and out into the open. With a protest, he followed.

They were immediately restrained. There were five Peacekeepers, one confiscating the gun from John, one holding his arms, one for each of the boys and one pointing his gun at John's chest. "You have been found in possession of an illegal firearm. Do you admit to this?"

"I do," John said flatly. "I stole it to protect my family. If you look inside you'll find the body of a cannibalistic creature that attacked us. What's left of it, at least."

"Regardless, civilian possession of a firearm is illegal. No doubt you stole it."

"Take Sammy inside, Dean," John said over the Peacekeeper. "Take care of him. And Dean, the note I got earlier..."

Dean jerked his chin up a fraction. "I'll take care of it, Dad." Painful words to say, but they had to be said. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder and began propelling him inside the house.

Sam pulled free. "Dad, what are you doing? They'll kill you!"

John only smiled the most pained but sincere smile that his sons had ever seen. It was a smile that broke hearts, that simultaneously said "I love you" and "goodbye". "Listen to your brother, Sammy. Do what he says."

They watched from the window. "Don't worry, there's still time." Dean said as comfortingly as possible, as if the words would come true just because they were uttered out loud. "If they do something they'll wait until they can get a crowd. We'll get him out before then."

"Dean..." Sam watched as they led John out into the street. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Sammy. I'm sure."

They watched from that window as the Peacekeepers forced John to his knees on the packed dirt road.

Dean pushed past Sam to stand in the door. "What the hell are you doing?" He was stopped by strong arms.

The gun was pointed at John as he knelt there alone. One shot, two, and their father was motionless into the dirt.

#

It was as if every fiber of Sam's being were screaming out and freezing at the same time. He was enraged, he was confused, who was the lifeless body before him?

Dean caught up faster. He let an anguished cry, fighting his captor tooth and nail. While he was tall, the man holding him was stronger and better fed. "I'll kill you, I'll kill all of you." He was released and kicked down to the ground. A blow was aimed at his ribs.

"Leave him alone!" Sam finally gathered enough of himself to say anything. John was dead. He was dead but Dean was still alive. He raised his voice. "Let us go!" Lights came on in the neighboring houses at the shout and people peered through the curtains at the spectacle.

One of the Peacekeepers, the one holding Sam back, grunted in displeasure. "Let's get this cleaned up." He released Sam, who hurried over to shield his brother from more blows from their steel-toed boots.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean mumbled something in reply. "... bastards... my ribs..."

Sam turned back to the Peacekeepers. They were driving their transport closer, one struggling to lift John toward it.

"Don't take him!" Dean managed to spit out. "You've done enough, dammit. Let me bury him myself."

The man with John over his shoulder looked toward his superior. "Let the kids have it," was the reply. "Less work for us."

John was deposited with a thump at their feet at the bottom of the porch stairs. In the flickering porch light his skin looked wax. Sam couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight, but Dean coldly watched as the Peacekeepers disappeared into the night. "I'm going to kill them. I swear I will," Dean said, his voice just as dead as his eyes.

#

Unfortunately, John wasn't dead when they rolled him over. It was unfortunate, although Dean would never admit it to Sam, because now John would linger. It was impossible that he could still alive-whether it was by a cruel miracle or all of the alcohol in his system-and yet here he was, gasping in shock and agony.

"Dad?" Sam was crouched over him, his hands flying frantically over his chest to staunch the blood.

Dean knelt beside him. "I'll take his arms. You take his feet." Together they managed to get him through the wreckage of the front door and onto the couch where he had been sleeping not fifteen minutes before. "Go get something to hold pressure on him." Dean tried to keep the panic out of his voice but it still showed through the cracks.

As soon as Sam vanished, a weak hand circled around Dean's wrist. "Dean." John's eyes were unfocused and pleading.

Dean knew what his dad wanted. It was what he would have wanted. A way out. "I can't do it, Dad." His voice broke on the last word. "We'll make you better. I'll fix this."

"The gun, Dean," was all John said.

Tears came unbidden and unwanted to Dean's eyes. "They took it." He placed his hand tightly over the rough hand still on his wrist. "They took it," he repeated.

John's grip loosened as he resigned himself to the pain. The tension in his body leaked out with the blood spreading into the threadbare cushions. He said nothing more.

Sam had tears on his own face when he returned with sheets stripped off of his bed. They wrapped their father in them like a funeral shroud for the living, the nondescript beige blotted with spreading stars of red. Sam knelt beside him, a hand on John's. Dean was above them both like a watching, vengeful angel perched on the arm of the couch. Their father was dying and there was nothing they could do about it.

They were still there, the two of them, an hour later when their father's labored breathing stopped. They were like statues, just waiting. Sam spoke first. "What do we do now?" The tears on his cheeks had dried, but his eyes were swollen.

"I don't know."

#

They burned John out in the wilderness beyond their small city the next day, his body was on top of a carefully built pyre. Sam and Dean stood around it with their father's closest friends. Bobby Singer and Ellen Harvelle promised John that they would look after his boys as his remains went up, light and sparks of heat into the sky. Little Jo Harvelle took Sam and Dean's hands but they were beyond comforting.

#

Sam slept that first night in their father's room, then the second. On the third Dean found him in there, curled up under the blanket and staring at the wall. Dean himself had spent the past few days brokenly pacing the house, but now he was tired.

"Get up," Dean said, practically yanking Sam off the mattress by the arm. "What the hell are you doing in here? It's creepy, that's what it is." He pushed Sam again for good measure. "Nothing's wrong with your room."

"My blankets were..." Sam trailed off. They were bloodstained beyond saving, still wrapped around John when they put him to rest.

"Then go find some new ones. Dammit, you're always so useless." He was pushing Sam, trying to get him to break, hoping to get him to break.

"Dean, stop. I know you're hurting. You don't have to take it out on me." Sam let the blanket drop on the bed and squared his shoulders.

"I'm fine," Dean said forcefully. "You're the one who won't get over it."

Sam took the bait. His fist connected solidly with Dean's jaw, sending him reeling back.

To his surprise, Dean didn't fight back. It had the opposite effect on him, like the bruise forming on his face was sapping away all of his fury. Dean bent to retrieve the blanket. It was a long silence as an understanding passed between them. Sam expressed his emotions through words, Dean through actions. They were both hurting, and the blanket was a peace offering. Dean handed it to Sam and stalked out of the room.

"What the hell, Dean," Sam said, following. Sam sat down on the edge of the bed as Dean leaned against the dresser, gingerly prodding his swollen jaw. "You should put something on that."

Dean looked distracted. "I don't know why I did that. Why I said those things. I was mad." He laughed sourly. "And you know what's funny? I don't even know why I was so damn mad in the first place."

"We've been through a lot," Sam offered. He didn't apologize for the punch, but then again they both knew Dean had needed and deserved it.

"Ain't that the truth," Dean said wearily. He felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of his father's note. It had gone up in flames on the pyre after Dean had slipped it into John's hand. Sam still didn't know. "Sam... I've got to tell you something. It's about that note dad got..."

Sam looked at his hands. "I tried to find it after... well... it must have been on him."

"I read it," Dead blurted. "And..."

"What?"

"It was from some kid named Adam."

"What?" Sam leaned forward, confused.

"I think he might be our brother."


End file.
